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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216545">Narcissus poeticus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensandcake/pseuds/kittensandcake'>kittensandcake</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Everyone Is Alive, M/M, One Shot, florist/tattoo artist au, is it the same universe? maybe, jon has a temper and hayfever</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:40:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensandcake/pseuds/kittensandcake</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eye of the Beholder is an established tattoo parlour in London, with a few exclusive clients and an excellent reputation. Jonathan Sims is the prickly head artist, well known in a number of artist circles. </p><p>Jon has hayfever. </p><p>A flower shop opens downstairs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>253</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Narcissus poeticus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Eye of the Beholder was relatively new. About five years ago it had opened up in the floor above an old hardware shop, and due to a rather impressive social media following it was popular in a matter of months. Fortunately, it was never crammed. Places like this - in such high demand - could afford to be picky with their clients. Or, more appropriately, Jon Sims could afford to be picky. There was a certain type of person that the owner of Beholder liked, and those were mainly people who knew what they were getting into, and weren't going to be cowards about it. No gimmicky tattoos, no novices, and no-one wasting his time, or the time of his assistants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far, things had worked out just like that. A good few clients a day, time for tea breaks, and clients who knew that getting an appointment here was something to be appreciated. Today, all but one of the consultation rooms, with their dark tiles and black leather client beds, was empty. And the one that was busy had been busy for a good few hours now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Music played from a speaker in the corner, the beat driving the actions of the man bent over the table, the whirr of the needle just about loud enough over the music. He moved his hands carefully, without a tremor or shake, directing the needle to wherever it was needed, the other hand pressing down against skin and stabilising his grip, or holding things at just the right angle to draw. Just as a line was drawn, a cloth collected the excess ink, all with the steady and rhythmic motions of one who was well practiced, and deep within his own thoughts. Until the music began to slow, and the man’s shoulders relaxed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon lifted his head and let out a soft huff, rubbing a hand over his forehead as he looked at the arm in front of him. Things were going according to plan; the transfer had gone on well, and the client was sitting remarkably still. Jon had made it very clear that he didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> first-time clients. They squirmed, they complained, sometimes they cried, and he simply did not have time for such things. Better to have someone who knew what was coming, so they could both focus on what really mattered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman on the table sighed, loud suddenly without the whirr of the needle, and leaned up a little to look at him. “You done?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.” Jon rolled his eyes, leaning over to re-ink the needle. “I’ve barely gotten started on this section. It’s going to be a good few more sessions, I think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need to be prickly about it,” the woman rolled her eyes as she rested her head back down, giving a roll of her muscular shoulder. “I was just asking. Maybe you had finished. Maybe you were taking a break, and I could go relax for a moment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re currently lying down.” Jon’s eyes narrowed, and the woman gave a dismissive wave of her free hand. Jon noticed the sweat on her forehead, and silently approved. This was hardly the most comfortable place to get a tattoo, yet aside from the look on her face she had made no other sign she was in pain. He was grateful for clients who didn’t complain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, lying down while you jab me over and over with a bloody needle.” The woman shot him another look, one that Jon definitely ignored. “So, can I go take a break? Or do you want to inflict a bit more pain on me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> attitude…” Jon muttered, just as his nose twitched. What was that smell? He paused, as his eyes began close, his mouth opened- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to jerk away, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow as he sneezed. His eyes itched, and Jon let out a low groan. “For the love of-” he barely managed to say, before he sneezed again. And again. He set the gun down on the bench next to him, quickly abandoned as he scooted back from the woman, sneezing again, and again, his eyes burning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, are you alright?” The woman had sat up now, giving him a curious look as she slid her legs around to the side. “What’s going on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes-” Jon spluttered, looking up to the open window. It was letting in some of the spring air - at Tim and Sasha’s request - and as he looked, he saw the blinds swaying slightly. A breeze appearing on a day that was meant to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> He lurched up, still sneezing as he made a grab for the handle, pulling the window shut and killing the breeze in a matter of seconds. It didn’t do much at first, as Jon continued to splutter and sneeze, pressing his face into his arm. It was only after a minute had passed that his nose and eyes began to feel better, as he gave a great, irritated sniff and turned back to the woman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine. It’s fine. I just have hayfever, and most of the time it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s just...bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>flowers</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He sniffed, blinking through bleary eyes to look at his client. She seemed amused, stiffly holding her newly tattooed arm out beside her as she sat up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, you’re telling me that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> need a moment, right?” She raised a brow at him, and before Jon could protest she was getting up from the table, turning her bicep to look at the fresh ink with an appreciative look on her face. Jon had to admit, even he was proud of the work. He didn’t like real flowers, but drawn flowers were something of a speciality of his. Foxgloves flowed out of the eye sockets of a weather-worn deer skull, antlers woven with jasmine, the bare jaws of a wolf grinning from below with poppies blooming in between its teeth, vines of ivy spiralling between the two skulls and curling wherever they found a purchase. The design had taken him a good few days to sketch, to finalise, and now only a few sections of linework were complete. The shading would talk at least two more sessions, but as the client looked at it with increasing appreciation - and Jon’s eyes began to clear - he was grateful of the extra work he had put in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine.” He sniffed, and started to look around for a tissue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure you are.” The client lifted her hand, waving it a little at Jon as she tried to get his attention. “How many fingers?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jon looked at her, before scowling. “I am not an idiot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not, but you’re probably blind right now. So how many?” The client waved her hand a little, and after a moment, Jon squinted. He really didn’t want to admit that the hand in front of him looked more like a blob than anything else. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked again, causing the woman to laugh and drop her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knew it. Go on, I’m not having you try and tattoo me while you can’t see. Take a break. I’ll go chat with your friend on the desk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not my friend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure? He’s the one with the beholder tat-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh don’t even mention it.” Jon huffed, rolling his eyes as he snapped the gloves off of his hands, throwing them into the bin under his desk. “You’d think someone working here would have a bit more class when choosing what they ink onto their body.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman raised a brow at him. “Christ, you’re a bit of a tattoo snob, aren’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looked her, dead in the eye. “You know I am also the ‘tattoo snob’ currently working on a very time-consuming, intricate design for you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s why I’m paying you.” The woman reached across for her top, muscles moving under pale skin. The new tattoo had started to mask some of the scars on her arm well, and Jon had gotten a good look at them as they’d worked. They were...interesting. Not at all like scars Jon had seen before, from various accidents, or the odd stab wound. These were like...claw marks. Many of them. And that one on her chest...he was rather certain was a gunshot wound. But also, he was hardly one to judge. He’d seen all types of people come through here, with various body modifications. At least his tattoos gave people something else to gawk at, and for much better reasons than scars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman gave a shrug, and looked up at Jon. “Look, it’s very nerdy, but it’s cute. Old-school beholder, while working at “Eye of the Beholder…”” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ridiculous. And no-one finds it funny.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I found it pretty funny.” The woman shot Jon a grin, and then waved her hand. “Go on, go get some antihistamines or something. I want to grab a coffee. You think your fit assistant would go get it for me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not-...you’re…” Jon scowled, and pushed a hand through his hair. It had already started to become loose, and he pulled at the elastic holding it back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who said I was talking about beholder-tattoo man?” The woman laughed, shaking her head as she lifted her shirt up over her head, only to pause and look at the sleeve. “Crap. Guess I can’t put this on, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you want to risk ruining things, go for it.” Jon tugged out the hair-tie and snapped it around his wrist, hair falling free. “Just...stay here. I’ll get someone to come in. Would you like-...” He rolled his eyes. “-the beholder tattoo man, or Sasha?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. Sasha.” The woman sat back on the tattoo bed, putting most of the weight on her left arm that had a number of interesting pieces on it already. Sharp, pointed designs, at contrast to the blooms now taking form on her right arm. “Give me a sec, though. Just want to give someone a ring.” She pulled her phone from her pocket, starting to dial a number as Jon headed for the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sneezed again, and heard a snicker from behind him. Jon was so very glad that at least one person was finding his condition amusing. He certainly wasn’t. And he knew </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what had caused all of this. The flower shop. Jon had never cared to learn the name of it, always insisting on hurrying past the front since it had opened downstairs. He had much, much preferred it when it was a hardware shop. No-one ever went in, and it meant that there were no members of the general public lingering about the front of his shop, oohing and aahing about what might be behind the strange, green-glass eye door. Not random people off the street wondering what the ‘odd shop upstairs’ was, wasting his and his assistant’s time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t as if Jon had a problem with flower shops. They tended to be small, out of the way, and Jon could see them from far enough away so that he could avoid them. But this one? This flower shop </span>
  <em>
    <span>insisted</span>
  </em>
  <span> on setting up all it’s flowers outside. Buckets upon buckets of freshly cut flowers, pots of geraniums, bouquets of roses, and about every other flowering, festering, </span>
  <em>
    <span>pollen-producing</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing that could be imagined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the bane of Jon’s existence. He so much as looked at a flower, and he could feel his eyes tearing up, his nose beginning to itch. And this flower shop had decided to put their wares mere feet below his own shop. Eye of the Beholder had quite happily sat above the old hardware shop for years, and Jon had never had any kind of problem with them. And now? Every damn time he opened a window, or started to head outside, he could barely breathe. And today, he’d had it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon marched out of the room, scowling and muttering to himself, enough to make Tim and Sasha both look up together from the magazine they were sharing. He didn’t see them share a look together, or the brief waggle of Tim’s brows, before they both returned their gazes to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim cleared his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Afternoon, Jon. Everything alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon muttered something under his breath, leaning up against the window and peering down.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon? Earth to Jon? Jonathon Sims; this is your Captain speaking,” Tim cupped a hand around his mouth to mimic the sound of a tannoy, and Jon dropped back onto his heels with a sound of derision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh please, Tim. The day you hold a management position is the day I let you tattoo whatever you want on me.” Jon replied, only to whip his head around and lock eyes with Tim, who was already opening his mouth with a grin on his face and a glint in his eyes. “Which will </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> happen, and this is also not a verbal contract in any way, shape, or form.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim looked as though he was going to try again, if only to irritate Jon further, before Sasha leaned forward on the desk to cut him off. “So are you okay? I thought you were with your two o’clock right now?” Her eyes cut back to the closed door as Jon just waved his hand dismissively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My two o’clock is currently taking a break.” Jon leaned back, looking out of the window and trying to peer down to the front of the building. Sure enough, there was a mess of colour just visible under the striped canopy of the shop, hundreds of flowers all in tubs out in the front. Jon’s nose just itched looking at it, and he sniffed aggressively, rubbing his nose. “The bloody wind changed, and when the window was open I just-...” Jon scowled. “They </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot</span>
  </em>
  <span> keep doing this. They simply can’t. You must need a license for something like this. It’s-...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think you’re being a bit dramatic about this, boss?” Tim chuckled, leaning his elbows on the counter and nudging Sasha with his shoulder. “It’s just some flowers. Look, we’ve got hayfever pills in the first aid kit. We can just keep the windows shut, and then you’ll be fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s not their fault, Jon.” Sasha glanced towards the consultation room again, and back up to where Jon looked like he was trying to climb out of the window without actually opening it, just to get a better look at the situation. “That, and. Well. The owners are kind of-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jon scoffed, turning and putting both hands on his hips. “Idiots? They’re certainly careless for not mentioning this before. I mean, when were we going to find out that it was going to be a flower shop downstairs?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim and Sasha both paused, and as if on cue, turned to look awkwardly at each other. Jon caught the look, and after a moment of useless silence he folded his arms indignantly across his chest, his foot tapping on the tiles. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim raised his brows and looked away from Jon, suddenly seeming to become incredibly interested in the magazine still open on the counter. Sasha looked up at Jon instead, and cleared her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We found out ages ago. Literally, ages ago. Ever since the hardware place went, and they put it up for sale. I’ve met with the owners a couple of times too. They’ve been really nice, all while they were redecorating downstairs.” She rubbed the back of her neck, showing off the tattoos spiralling up her arm and partially down her neck. The colours were bright and clear, and Jon spotted a little of his own work there, before Sasha lowered her arm again and gave him a weak smile. “One of them actually-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon waved a hand to cut her off, taking a few steps forward to the desk. “Well, if they’ve been so nice to you, how come </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve</span>
  </em>
  <span> never met them before?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim looked up again, and this time his face was bright with a smile. “Oh, I don’t know, boss. Maybe it’s something to do with how you </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> leave. How you’re always working. Perhaps it’s got something to do with the fact you consistently look like you’ve just eaten a very sour lemon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped when he realised Jon was glaring at him, his eyes narrowed to slits and his lips pursed. And then grinned, and pointed at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There!” Tim chuckled. “Just like that. Wow. I didn’t even realise you did it on purpose. I thought it was a reflex, like someone whacking your knee with a hammer and-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Tim. I know how muscle reflexes work.” Jon muttered, reaching out and batting his pointing finger away with a grimace. Tim just laughed again, leaning forward onto the counter and - much to Jon’s chagrin -  becoming eye level for him. Jon shifted, his back poker-straight and his chest puffed out, just a hair. “I don’t go through life with blinkers on. If they really wanted to come and meet me, they would have met me. It’s as simple as that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s brows drew together. “You never went to meet them either, you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a moment of silence, before Jon huffed and threw his hands up in the air. “Right. Right. Thank you, everyone, for your wonderful input, truly inspiring work. But if you won’t mind me, I need to talk to the owners. Properly” He began to head behind the counter, going for the phone right next to the till. They haven’t had much reason to have it before, but with any luck the old phone downstairs had been left in, and Jon could ring through without costing himself any money.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They need to answer for this. It’s ridiculous to expect this to continue with us upstairs.” Jon stabbed at the receiver, his eyes narrowed. As he did, he was certain that he heard Sasha and Tim whispering together. The whisper reached a fever pitch, abruptly ended, and just as Jon was turning around to ask them just what the hell they were gossiping about, Tim surged forwards, pressing down on the receiver button just as the line connected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tim, for the love of God-” Jon began to complain, as Tim grinned and plucked the phone from his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why call them, boss? I mean, a call is all very well and good, but I’m pretty sure that they’re actually downstairs right now.” Tim grinned, and Jon narrowed his eyes, leaning back a little from Tim in order to fold his arms over his chest with suspicion. “And if you can get them for it downstairs, then maybe you can cause a scene. Make them take you seriously, and all that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tim, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>going to become a problem customer just to prove a point.” Jon complained, shaking his head. The last thing he needed was to become what they all collectively hated, even if he was incredibly irritated by the entire ordeal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay, no causing a scene. Even if you’re incredibly good at that.” Tim gave a shrug, his t-shirt shifting to show the thick black band on his arm before dropping back into place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that even supposed to mean-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, just saying, you could head down and see them in person. How bad would that be? Once you’ve introduced yourself, maybe you’ll be able to convince them to stop putting flowers out. Or...maybe as many flowers.” Tim grinned down at Jon, raising a brow. “Use that world famous Sims charm on them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon gave Tim a withering look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on.” Tim leaned over him, and hung the phone back onto the receiver. “And hey, then we can have a chat with your client. Go get her a drink or something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon pursed his lips. “She did mention she wanted a drink.” He didn’t want to leave his client for too long. Although she’d be grateful for the break, they’d also both be grateful to leave on time. The less time he left between it, the more work he could get done. So far she had been very good at keeping still, and even at painful spots she barely made a sound. The ideal client, besides the snark and clear enjoyment she got from prodding him. How she was so happy to tease him already, Jon wasn’t sure, and for a moment he wondered whether he’d seen her around before. Maybe. He wasn’t one to remember repeat customers, unless they came very, very often. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed, lifting a hand and rubbing the bridge of his nose, displacing his glasses for a moment. “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>certain</span>
  </em>
  <span> the owners are downstairs?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>positive</span>
  </em>
  <span>, boss. I saw them less than an hour ago.” Tim grinned, and behind him Sasha stifled a laugh, flipping to the next page of the magazine while clearly avoiding eye contact with Jon. “Wouldn’t hurt, right? Here.” He reached under the counter, pressing a foil packet into Jon’s hands. “Knock a couple of these back, then go say hi. We’ll man the desk. Get your client a coffee. Did she say if she liked anything in particular?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. But Sasha can ask. She can’t put her top on just yet, so I asked her who she’d like to talk to. She chose Sasha.” Jon took the packet, considering it for a moment. Definitely antihistamine, and not some drug Tim had been experimenting with at the weekend. Maybe it would be enough to cut through the pollen from downstairs. He popped a pill out and swallowed it dry, discarding the packet back to some random shelf and rounding the counter. “Right. Get her whatever she’d like. I’ll be back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will do, Jon,” Sasha smiled at him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and leaving the counter for the consultation room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remember; you’re the boss, boss,” Tim grinned, scooting out of Jon’s way and sending a pair of finger guns his way as he went. Why Tim, a full grown man, still used finger-guns on people, was beyond Jon. They were far too old for a lot of the things Tim did, yet it clearly didn’t stop him. As Jon moved past Tim, the oversized eyeball of the beholder tattoo winked out at him from under his collar, and Jon rolled his eyes with no further comment. Such a /stupid/ tattoo. If he’d seen it before hiring Tim, he doubted he would have accepted him at all. But sadly, Tim was an accomplished artist, and good on the books. Much better than a lot of the other people Jon had interviewed. So he moved on past him, and gestured back to the consultation room. “Don’t leave her alone for too long. I’ll be back. Soon. Very soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tugging on his jacket, Jon opened the door to the parlour and skittered down the stairs, stepping into the hallway adorned with a number of framed pictures of their work. A lot of eyes. Jon liked eyes. They were something of a speciality of his, and as he walked past them he briefly touched his forearm, where Tim had inked his own design. An eye, flanked by beams of light, ever-staring out at him. It was a little unnerving, but he liked it all the same. And people liked eyes, if his client roster was anything to go by. It had been one of the reasons he’d chosen the place, although he’d never admit it. He glanced up towards the door, the green-glass and wrought iron eye winking right back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s fingers finished tracing the design of the eye on his arm, before both hands pushed at the front door, and he was out in the sunlight. It was warm, a cool breeze preventing it from being too hot, yet with Jon’s expression the sunny exterior of the shop seemed to dim in comparison. He huffed, wrinkling his nose against the smell of flowers that was already finding him, storming straight past the tubs upon tubs of blooms and inside the shop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pleasant bell rang above his head as he made his way inside, tinkling cheerily and only making him scowl even more. The shop was nothing like the hardware shop he had become so used to. Dusty, paint-splattered counters had been replaced by rows upon rows of wood and brass shelves, flowers sorted by individual species, potted plants set neatly in rows with stems and leaves trailing over each other. A tall plant with glossy leaves the size of dinner trays swayed gently as the door shut behind him, and the smell of damp, growing things hit him. It...wasn’t as bad, inside the shop. Jon could still breathe and his eyes were just about watering, but it was enough for him to scowl, angrily wiping his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” He called out, casting his gaze about. No other customers. Just like the parlour upstairs, the shop was small, making the number of plants in here seem even more excessive. Jon made a face, stalking up to the desk. It was wooden, covered in ribbons, colourful cellophane, scraps of paper and string. Chaos. Jon’s nose wrinkled, and he sneezed. He groaned, shaking his head. This was an awful idea. He never should have listened to Tim. How was he going to argue his case when he could barely even see? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hello</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You’re open, so someone’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>obviously</span>
  </em>
  <span> here,” Jon called again, pulling his glasses off of his face and rubbing both eyes with a groan. There wasn’t even a bell for him to ring. At least, he hadn’t seen one. Wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>able</span>
  </em>
  <span> to see one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon grumbled to himself, starting to feel along the desk. Just as he did, he heard a rustling right ahead of him, the sound of someone moving towards him. He peeled both eyes open, seeing a tall figure come out from under the beaded curtain separating the shop from the back room, and scowled. Finally. He lifted his glasses up to his face, brows knitted together in frustration. “Finally-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the glasses settled on his face, Jon found himself in front of a person. A tall person, broad shouldered with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, a mop of hair visible above the largest bouquet of daffodils Jon had ever seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Daffodils</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon took a single breath, and started to sneeze. He stepped back from the counter, eyes streaming. “For God’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>sake!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry! Sorry,” Came from behind the daffodils, and there was a greater rustling and the sound of the flowers being dumped, before a large hand was pressing onto Jon’s shoulder. “Oh, God, are you alright? Are you allergic to something here? I’m sorry, I’m just not used to people coming in here, here-” The hand on his shoulder began to guide him, as Jon sneezed and gasped for air, his eyes burning. This was truly the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea he had to date. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, fine, I’m- ac</span>
  <em>
    <span>HOO</span>
  </em>
  <span>-” Jon sneezed into his elbow and groaned, shaking his head. “I just need to get-...for God’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>sake</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I need to get out of here, this is ridiculo-ah...ah--” He sneezed again, and wondered if this was the end for him. Death by flowers. What an awful, stupid way to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let the person lead him, whether to get him help or to finish him off entirely, around the counter and towards the back. They passed through the beaded curtain, and after a moment or two Jon felt cool air on his face. He spluttered and wiped at his nose, right as a handful of tissue was pushed into his hand. He used it, gladly, straightening up and blinking his swollen eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, I just came in and you started to sneeze so much. Are you-...do you have hayfever? It’s peak pollen season, what are you doing in a flower shop?? I know we have other plants, but it’s a miracle you made it through everything outside, maybe the wind picked up or something-...” The person kept talking, and Jon peered through his glasses at just who was talking to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a man. About the same age, or slightly younger than him. Strawberry blonde hair, leaning towards roan, a pair of circular glasses perched on his nose that got hurriedly pushed back into place. Blue eyes, bright as cornflowers. Jon blinked, staring at the man in front of him, as his stomach did a small flip. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh dear</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he did so. “Any better? I figured it was hayfever, so...I-I thought coming back here would be a better idea. It’s still the stockroom, but less flowers here. At least for the time being.” He laughed, a little nervously, and smoothed a hand down the front of his apron, before giving Jon a smile. It was so bright, and even with his blurred vision Jon could make out the freckles on the man’s face. For a moment, it was all he could do to stare, before the man cleared his throat softly and held out a hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Martin. Blackwood. K.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“K?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never mind.” The man laughed, again, and this time it was definitely nervous. For what reason, Jon was unsure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looked down at his hand, broad and strong, and after a moment’s pause slid his own into it. The contrast between them was stark; pale, unmarked skin, and rich brown covered in ink. Not to mention the sheer size of the man. Jon wasn’t short. He definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> short. Five eleven was the national average, after all. But he was - what Tim liked to call - lanky. Martin was tall, easily taller than Tim, with broad shoulders, thick arms and hands that spoke of a strength Jon could only dream of, not communicated at all in the gentle hold Martin took of his hand. What kind of florist looked like this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jonathon Sims.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sims?” Martin raised a brow, before smiling and glancing up. “Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re from upstairs, aren’t you? Eye of the Beholder?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Yes.” Jon took a moment to collect his thoughts, clearing his throat and standing a little taller. Not that it made any difference. He was still one-hundred percent shorter than Martin. By a head, at least. “Yes. I am. I run it. It’s-...It’s my shop. I’m the owner.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And this was who ran this shop. Jon hadn’t expected it at all. And he certainly hadn’t expected to be staring up at this man, Martin, and feeling his face flush in embarrassment and...something else. He was still holding his hand, for God’s sake. His hand slid from Martin’s grip, who instantly laughed, and rubbed the back of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, well...I probably should have guessed that, shouldn’t I?” He chuckled, gesturing to Jon’s arm. “It is right in front of me. Right there, and there, and there.” Martin gestured to a few places, Jon’s hands, and then the small piece that Jon knew crawled up the side of his neck, just visible if he left his shirt open, but hidden the moment he did it up. Jon cleared his throat, and his fingers tugged at his collar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not necessarily. I-...um...” Whatever happened to all the words he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to say?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a silence, for just a moment, while both of them seemed to decide what to say, lean into the words, and then stop again. Jon kept looking at Martin’s face, as he pouted and parted his lips, before stopping himself. Jon almost broke the silence himself, but Martin was too quick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like some tea?” Martin smiled encouragingly, stepping back a little. Now there was some space between them - and Jon’s eyes were no longer streaming from all the pollen - he could see where they were. A small back room, about the size of his consultation room. A kitchenette stood in the corner, just below a window that let in some natural light. There were shelves covered in boxes, some open some not, and the longer Jon looked the more he saw things he expected to see in a florists’. More cellophane, reams of coloured ribbon, boxes of terracotta pots, packs of seeds. And a selection of what looked to be fancy tea. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked back at Martin, who was already heading over to the kitchenette. A few boxes of the stuff were open near the kettle, by a set of slightly chipped mugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have an immune system blend that might help. Cinnamon, clove, and black tea. Or peppermint and lemongrass, if that’s more your brand?” Martin paused, looking back at Jon with a bashful smile. “Sorry. You haven’t even said you can, yet. You might have just been nipping down to say hi. I’ve met your friends upstairs already, Tim and Sasha. They’re lovely. I’ve never seen so many tattoos before, it’s been fun to learn about them…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin.” Jon started, and Martin stopped talking, one hand resting on the worktop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry. I’m...definitely rambling.” Martin chuckled, more bashfully this time, and Jon took in a quick breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tea is...tea would be lovely. I-...thank you.” He had a </span>
  <em>
    <span>client</span>
  </em>
  <span> upstairs. He needed to get back. Finish his work. But...she was also having coffee. Most likely. And Tim and Sasha did love to gossip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was fairly certain they didn’t have any clients until later. So. He could have tea with this florist. Even if it meant he’d have to tell him to stop leaving flowers outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin busied himself right away, turning the kettle on and dropping teabags into mugs, while pulling out a pair of stools with his foot. He moved quite comfortably here, and Jon briefly glanced over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you-...I’m not here to tell you how to run your business, but shouldn’t you be out the front? In case someone comes in?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin laughed, turning and giving Jon a smile. “I’ll hear them. I heard you, didn’t I? Besides, we’ve not had a ton of people come by today. We’re only new after all, and not many people know where we are. But it’s alright. Basira said that we’ll be up and running properly in a week or two, once we get the word out.” He smiled, pushing one of the stools towards Jon and sitting on his own. Briefly, Jon was worried the stool wouldn’t hold the man, but it somehow managed it. Jon perched, rubbing his hands together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basira. That’s your-...?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Basira. She’s the one who found this place.” Martin smiled, tilting his head a little. “It was...a DIY shop, or something? Until it shut, anyway. Then she bought it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon wet his lips, and considered his next words carefully, using the time to wipe his eyes again with the tissue. “So, ah-...” He paused, and his chest tightened. Ah. Martin and Basira. Tim had mentioned a couple running the place. Jon gave a small nod of his head. “I see. Well. How, um…” Smalltalk was hardly his forte, but he was trying. At least for now. “How...long have you and Basira been together?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look on Martin’s face was shock, followed swiftly by confusion. “What? Me and-...oh, oh! No, I-...” He laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. Basira’s my boss. Technically she’s co-boss. They haven’t hired many people yet, but they knew me and I needed a job, so I got first pick of where to be,” He pushed his hair back from his face, and it quickly flopped back down again, soft and curled at the ends. Jon found himself wanting to run his hands through it, and quickly threaded his fingers together in grim determination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re...you’re not the owner?” He asked, brows knitted together. Why the hell did Tim say the owners were downstairs, then? Was he purposefully wasting his time, or was he really just that much of an idiot?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no.” Martin smiled, giving a small shrug of his shoulders. “Front of house, technically. I guess assistant manager? Or...assistant </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> the manager. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Managers</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He glanced off towards the desk, where Jon saw a collection of ledgers alongside binders, and other legal paperwork that he was intimately familiar with. “Basira handles the books. Daisy does branding, and everything else. I just keep things running, and make all the arrangements.” Martin’s smile turned bashful for a moment, and the kettle clicked off, the rumble of the boiling water and the steam making the room cozier by the second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jumped up, preparing the tea while Jon just watched him, tilting his head a little. He acted like he was half his size, the mugs dwarfed in his hands as he carefully poured out water, dropping individual tea-bags into each one and hanging the string off the side of the mug. It was so very different to the paper cups of basic tea that Jon all but inhaled upstairs, and as he clasped the mug between two hands he felt a kind of peace fall over him. When was the last time he had just...sat? With a cup of nice tea? A waft of steam billowed up into his face, and Jon inhaled. Peppermint and lemongrass for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sorry,” Martin chuckled, looking between them. “I should have asked what you preferred. If you’d like the cinnamon one, I could trade, it’s fin-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Jon opened his eyes again, breathing a little clearer already. “No, I-...this one’s just fine. Thank you.” He blew the steam from the top of the mug, and looked up at Martin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So…floristry?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<span>He was down there far too long. Jon knew that the moment he finished his mug of tea, and felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He had ignored it this entire time, and as he pulled it out of his pocket his heart sank. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thirty two unread messages. Eight missed calls. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hey. You coming back anytime soon? TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No big deal. Just. Your client is still here. She’s halfway through the coffee. TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Three quarters. TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Done with the coffee. TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Should we get her another one? TS</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Jon, she’s getting kind of impatient. In that polite way people get impatient. TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jon. Seriously. Where are you?? TS </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you still downstairs?? TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve  been downstairs. Are you dead? TS</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my God Jon, are you dead? TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s leaving soon, you know. TS </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve got fifteen minutes. TS</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am literally drafting another design with her that I’m going to do for free. Get your fucking ass up here!!!! TS </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Shit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Jon cursed, almost dropping his mug as he lurched up from the stool, visibly startling Martin as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. “I’m sorry. I forgot, I-...I’ve got a client upstairs. Right now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, God, sorry,” Martin leapt up too, worry clear on his face. “I’m so sorry, God, I should have asked if you were free first, I shouldn’t have just made you-...oh dear, well, at least you’re just upstairs, right?” He smiled at Jon, and that smile made Jon’s chest tighten a little. “It’s okay! I’ll deal with all of this.” Martin reached across, wrapping his hand around the mug. As he did, his fingers found Jon’s hand, and there was a brief pause. Jon jolted, his arm contracting as if a bolt of electricity had sent his muscles into overdrive, and it was all he could do to stop himself from launching the mug into the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ, sorry, I’m-...” Jon caught the mug with his other hand, pressing it into Martin’s warm, broad hand and ever so quickly withdrawing his grip. “I’m sorry, I-...” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Martin. For the tea. And the...rescue.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” Martin smiled, chuckling. “Next time, maybe stay away from the flower-shop before you’ve had some hayfever pills? Here,” He put both mugs down, stepping towards Jon. “I’ll walk you out. Just in case. The daffodils are sti-” This time, Martin’s voice trailed off, and his shoulders tensed. “Oh God. I left the daffodils out. How long have we been in-...oh dear.” He gestured to Jon, all but shooing him out of the stockroom and back through the bead curtain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, Jon felt his eyes start to itch. He rocked back and sneezed again, groaning to himself. But as he did, he felt hands grasp his shoulders, pushing him forwards towards the shop door. “Come on! You’ve got to get back up there!” Martin said behind him, and in a giddy moment of sneezing, and the fact that Martin’s hands were so very warm and solid on his shoulders, Jon couldn’t help but laugh. He laughed, shaking his head and wiping his eyes as Martin guided him to the front of the shop, the tinkling of the bell sounding pleasantly above his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go on!” Martin laughed himself, the vibrations of it reverberating into Jon’s shoulders, which only made him laugh more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going, I’m going,” Jon chuckled, even as he sneezed again and pushed against the front door, briefly turning around to look up at Martin. He stared, for just a moment, before sniffing and lifting the tissue back up to his nose. It was even worse here, Martin amidst a riot of awful, awful flowers. But Jon couldn’t help but smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. Martin.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what? Making you sneeze?” Martin chuckled, grinning down at Jon, which only succeeded in making him smile even more. His face was starting to hurt from the effort, and he wasn’t sure whether he enjoyed it or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the very least, he didn’t hate it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I-...” Jon huffed, shaking his head. “Thank you for the tea. And the, ah...distraction, I suppose.” He smiled, and then very quickly cleared his throat, stepping back. “I...I will see you around.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See you! If you ever want something for the parlour, just let me know. Maybe you could get some art for the walls here,” Martin beamed from the doorway of the shop, slowly becoming hidden by the flowers as Jon left. His nose was still stuffy, his eyes still stung. But clearly the antihistamine had started to work. He could still see the top of Martin’s head as he disappeared back into the shop, and heard the muffled tinkling of the bell. He paused for just a moment, around the corner of the shop, right until he was reminded of the task at hand. Jon cursed again, and fled back to Beholder’s. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” Jon blurted as he burst in, face flushed. Tim looked up from the counter, with the woman leaning over a piece of paper he had in front of him, her finger tracing the black ink of a poppy. She’d clearly put on her shirt now, but Jon could see the clingfilm wrapped around her arm, protecting the design. At least Tim had had the sense to do that before letting her out of the consultation room. She straightened up, raising a brow as she looked Jon up and down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, when I said a break…” She said, giving a roll of her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know. I lost track of time,” Jon pulled off his jacket, throwing it haphazardly at the coat stand. “It is not like me at all. Just...extenuating circumstances. Apologies. Are you ready?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman looked back at Tim, who gave her a brief smile, pushing the paper towards her. “You hold onto that, and whichever one you like the best, I’ll do it for you.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Pro bono</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Tim,” The woman smiled as she folded the paper up, sticking it in her back pocket and looking towards Jon, who was already halfway across the room. He could feel the pollen clinging to his clothes, and knew that he smell of daffodils, and tea. Definitely a different smell to the generic antiseptic smell of the parlour. The woman tilted her head as she followed him in, sitting on the leather bed and raising a brow at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know you stink of flowers, right? I thought the whole point of taking a break was so you could go be </span>
  <em>
    <span>away</span>
  </em>
  <span> from flowers.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Well.” Jon sat down on his stool, hurriedly reaching for the gun and trying to avoid thinking about how he was going to explain all of this. The taste of lemongrass and peppermint was still strong on his tongue, and he had to swallow before prepping everything else on his station, pulling his hair back and snapping a fresh pair of gloves on. He was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>late</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He was never late. And now, as he glanced up to the antique clock on the wall, he was almost an hour behind. An </span>
  <em>
    <span>hour</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?” The woman pulled off her shirt, setting it next to her and holding out her arm, starting to peel the clingfilm herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I went to have a word. With the people downstairs.” Jon adjusted his glasses, sliding the chair over the tiles. “About the flowers.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman paused, and slowly arched a brow at him. “Okay. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a flower shop, you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, I know.” Jon came close, carefully peeling off the rest of the clingfilm and looking down at the design.  “But they leave the flowers outside.” Her skin was reddened around the newest lines as he expected, but thankfully the rest of the design seemed intact. No smudging, no bleeding...Good. He didn’t want to ruin his reputation because of bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>hayfever</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He discarded the clingfilm and started to ink the gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Again.” The woman leaned back, still staring him down. “Flower-shop. Didn’t you get the memo about what it is that flower shops do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I am just saying, if I had known that was what they were going to be doing for the foreseeable future, I might have had a word with them sooner, rather than later.” Jon huffed, leaning back from a moment to look at the woman. “Why do you even care? You’re hardly going to be here for that long, and you don’t look like you’re allergic to pollen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman regarded him, her brow still raised as she slowly tilted her head to the side, as if she was gearing up for something . “Well. It would be stupid if the owner of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>flower shop</span>
  </em>
  <span> had hayfever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon stopped, his brows knitting together in sudden confusion. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said. It would be stupid, if the </span>
  <em>
    <span>owner</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>flower shop</span>
  </em>
  <span>, had </span>
  <em>
    <span>hayfever</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The woman punctuated her words, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, and for a few moments the cogs turned uselessly in Jon’s head as he tried to deduce what she was trying to imply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the penny dropped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You-...” Jon blinked, looking back towards the door, where the ledger and Tim were currently sitting. “I-...” He shook his head. “How? Your name is-” Jon had to think hard about this. What had he written down, when she’d called? Alison? Alice? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your name’s A-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name is Daisy.” This time it was the woman scowling as she sat up, staring him down. “Daisy. Tonner. And I own the shop downstairs. Did you seriously not remember my name? You took my booking <em>yourself.</em>"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I-...I-er..." </span>
  <em>
    <span>Basira and Daisy run it. I just work here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Jon felt his face heat, and he stared at Alice. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daisy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So. You got a problem with my shop?” The woman sat up, and Jon became increasingly aware that this Daisy was...much taller than him. And also much stronger looking too. His face flushed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just-...um.” Jon straightened his back. “We can’t have </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the windows up here open. Because of all of those flowers downstairs. If there was a chance that you could stop that, or at the very least </span>
  <em>
    <span>limit</span>
  </em>
  <span> the number of flowers down there, it would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>greatly </span>
  </em>
  <span>appreciated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you just go downstairs to harass my staff because of something they have no control over?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! No, Christ, no, I didn’t-” Jon spluttered, lifting both gloved hands up in defence. “I didn’t go and harass anyone. I didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you seem like the kind of tosser that would.” Daisy levelled her gaze at him, and for the briefest moment, Jon wondered if he was going to get punched by her. No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They were adults. This was a disagreement, at best. He knew he was unpleasant to be around - Tim made that incredibly clear at least once a week - but this woman wouldn’t just attack him out of nowhere. His eyes darted across her face, before he cleared his throat pathetically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...did not. I didn’t. My only intention was to go downstairs and discuss the possibilities of coming to an...an arrangement, between the two of us. But of course you weren’t down there, neither was...Basira, I think her name was? It was just that one man. Martin.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy’s gaze was heavy as she looked at Jon, and he hurried to continue. “I didn’t even have time to ask him that. The pollen was so bad I just started sneezing, and making an absolute idiot of myself, so instead of me getting to ask him that he took me to the back room and bloody well made me </span>
  <em>
    <span>tea</span>
  </em>
  <span> until I could breathe again. And then just proceeded to be horribly lovely about the shop, you two, and my shop until I realised that I’d been gone for an hour.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sat there for a few beats, Daisy all but looming off of the client bed, and Jon sat on the stool with the gun in one hand, holding himself more awkwardly than he would have appreciated. It was...unpleasant. Daisy seemed to be enjoying the silence, or at the very least, watching him squirm. So Jon stopped, and levelled his gaze right back at her, even if it made the back of his neck grow hot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a second, Daisy’s features softened, and she gave a shrug. “Alright.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon balked. “W-what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. I’ll look into it.” Daisy began to settle back on the bed. “You’re not even finished with this yet, and I’ve paid upfront. Be a bit daft if I wasn’t able to get this done because of my own business.” She adjusted her bicep on the arm rest, looking up at Jon expectantly, and without any of the disdain that had been present earlier “Sure Martin won’t mind, either. Bit less work setting outside up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...I suppose. That is one way of looking at it.” Jon cautiously lowered his hands, looking between the tattoo and Daisy like someone considering whether or not to touch a wild animal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s good for a chat, isn’t he? Talks for England, when he’s in the mood.” Daisy grinned, yet unlike Martin’s beam, Jon didn’t feel nearly as comfortable around it. There were a few too many teeth in Daisy’s smile, and it was infinitely sharper than his had been. He sniffed, once, and pulled his inks over towards him, the gun settling more comfortably into his hand as he set himself up to work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Well. Chat and tea. He was...pleasant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good eye for stuff around the shop. He’s made all the arrangements since we got him in there, and Basira’s loved it. Real green thumb.” Daisy’s eyes were on him, even as Jon began to work again, drawing lines and cleaning up the excess ink, the whirr of the gun settling him and coaxing him back into his flow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Single, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon almost ruined the tattoo there and then. He had the sense to pull his hand back with one sharp movement, the gun stuttering to a halt. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying.” Daisy was grinning even more, as Jon’s gaze met her face. “Single as hell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon scowled, flushed, and leaned over the tattoo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were fewer flowers outside the shop now. Jon had finally gotten his prescription, and now with the combined efforts of cetirizine and olopatadine, he could walk by the front of the shop with minimal symptoms. His eyes would itch a bit, yes, and he might sneeze once or twice. But it meant he could walk past the windows, and look inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Martin was talking with customers, towering over most of them and smiling as he lifted down pots from higher shelves, or chatted amicably with them. He was often at the counter, wrapping flowers and tying the bouquets off with practiced ease, handing them over to people with a grin and a goodbye. Once or twice he was outside, refilling the buckets of flowers, where he would smile at Jon and ask if the flowers were alright, if he was doing better, had he done any interesting tattoos recently? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon had been late for appointments more than ever. But only by a few moments. And people had started to say they liked the smell of flowers in the parlour, compared to the usual smell of antiseptic and ink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon didn’t see Martin for a few days. He was busy, and he had guessed Martin was busy too, with Daisy and Basira manning the front of the shop a handful of times. With Daisy’s sleeve done, she was out of the parlour with no reason to return save for collecting on Tim’s offer of a free design. Jon had seen a few sketches, and he wasn’t pleased at the thought of one of Tim’s doodles occupying the same body as his work of art. But that wasn’t up to him, in the end. And if Daisy wanted a tattoo of a cat in a kayak...well. That was up to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made his way up the stairs, already pulling his coat off before he was in the door, hanging it up on the rack and looking over to the waiting room. Tim and Sasha were on opposite sidesof the counter, talking quickly together over...some kind of package. “Morning.” Jon said, and both of them jumped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re here!”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I’m here.” Jon said in exasperation, his eyes narrowing as he looked at both of them. “I work here. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>own</span>
  </em>
  <span> here. What’s going on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing.” Sasha smiled, stepping back from the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got a present.” Tim beamed, leaning back himself and holding both hands over the object. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon paused, and regarded them both suspiciously. “...A present?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not from us, by the way.” Sasha said, and quickly lifted her hands in defense. “Not that we don’t get you stuff. I mean. It’s not your birthday yet, or anything. But it wasn’t us! It was someone else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s your secret admirer, boss?” Tim wiggled his eyebrows at Jon, and pushed the thing to him across the counter. Jon approached. It was wrapped loosely in brown paper, an arrow drawn haphazardly on the side to indicate what way up it should be kept, brown string holding it all together. A note was taped to the side too, and after a moment Jon pulled away the note, and undid the string. The paper fell off easily, with no tape holding it together, and Jon stared at what it revealed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cactus. About eight inches tall, two branching arms, covered in tiny spines that almost made it look fluffy. Sat in a terracotta pot painted with cheery, colourful designs and patterns. It stuck out like a sore thumb against the black glass of the counter, and Jon opened the note.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sorry I’ve not seen you around. New orders keep coming in for summer, and I’m in the back room most days, so...I thought you could use something to cheer you up in the parlour! Now don’t worry; this cactus does flower. But it only flowers once every twenty years, so no pollen for you to sneeze at. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hope you like him! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>M.</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>B</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God. Someone’s finally called you a prick.” Tim laughed from the counter, and Jon glared at him from under his lashes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be so immature.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, isn’t that what they say? Roses for love, poppies for remembrance, cacti for ‘You’re an absolute prick never contact me again’?” Tim laughed again, as Sasha leaned over to Jon and looked down at the note. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tim. Tim.” She grinned up at him. “It’s from M.B.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tim’s face split into a smile. Jon stared between the two of them, but before he could ask, Sasha took his wrist and tilted the note, looking at it from another angle. “Hey Jon. Look.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>P.S. Want to grab a drink some time?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tim punched the air. Sasha beamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon couldn’t help but look at the little potted cactus, and smile. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>it's quarantine time and friends were requesting something nice, so here I have my first tma fic ever. I hope you enjoyed it ! Any tattooing/floristry/hayfever innaccuraccies are due to me never having gotten a tattoo, only briefly spending time in a florists, and a superior immune system.<br/>I do love daffodils, however. </p><p> </p><p>For Emma and Harri;<br/>Emma: as you have read every Magnus fic there is, and corona means you need all you can get.<br/>Harri: for suggesting the best AU there is. </p><p>&lt;3&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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